The Making of a Gentleman

by Ruth Axtell Morren

Betsy glanced up at her and her eyes widened in fright. “I…I couldn’t help it.” Tears started up in the young woman’s eyes. “Honestly, I couldn’t help it.”

  Her voice rose. “What did you tell him?”

  Betsy began to sob. “I…I s…said i…it looked just like M…Mr. K…K…Kendall. He had the same eyes and looked so funny with a long beard and hair!” She hiccupped, the tears thickening her speech. “But I didn’t say it were him…j…just th…that it…it looked like him.”

  “You silly, foolish girl!” Florence raised a hand, wanting to slap the girl for her loose tongue. Would the admission cost Quinn his life?

  Betsy raised her arms and covered her head.

  “Florence.” Damien’s voice held warning.

  She lowered her hand, shaking with fear and rage. Pressing her lips together, she turned her back on Betsy, afraid of what she might do to the ignorant girl.

  Damien spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Nichols. “I’m sorry we didn’t let you into our confidence sooner. We didn’t want you to be in any way to blame if Quinn were ever discovered.”

  Albert cleared his throat. “We—that is Elizabeth and I—kind of figured out who Kendall—Quinn—was when he arrived. We thought you were just offering him shelter the way you have so many times to a soul in need.”

  “Thank you for your trust.”

  Betsy let out a wail. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? I never would’a…” Her words were muffled by her tears as she put her head down on her arms and began to weep. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean no harm to W…William!”

  Her mother put an arm around her shoulders. “There…there, we know you didn’t mean no harm. You just don’t know how to hold your tongue. That’s why no one told you anything.”

  “I’m afraid the situation is very grave,” Damien told them. “We’d begun to hope…with his transformation into a gentleman that perhaps Quinn was safe.” He frowned. “Even though he has escaped for the moment, we don’t know how long he’ll be able to elude the authorities. We had packed a sack of provisions for him, including sufficient money to see him a ways.” He paused. “We need to pray.”

  Florence joined them around the table where they joined hands. “Dear Lord,” began Damien, his head bowed, his eyes closed. “‘O Thou that hearest prayer, unto Thee shall all flesh come,’” he began, quoting the verse from a psalm. “We ask for Your mercy and grace in our time of need…”

  Florence felt her faith strengthened as she listened to her brother’s words. Surely the Lord would make a way of escape for Quinn.

  Oh, dear God, she continued silently, when Damien had finished his prayer and yet they all remained seated, show him a way out. Have mercy on his soul. He doesn’t deserve to die. Please don’t take his life, not like this… She could feel the tears squeezing from her tightly closed lids and rolling down her cheeks. Please, Lord, protect him…even if I never see him again…take him away somewhere safe….

  Florence spent the next hour alternately pacing her room and praying and looking out the window down to the yard, remembering her last sight of Quinn.

  She was worried about both Quinn and her brother. Shortly after the guards had left the parsonage, an official summons had come for Damien from the warden at Newgate and he had left immediately.

  Would he be held responsible? What would he say?

  Finally, she could stand it no longer. She would go herself to find out what had happened to Damien. Just as she reached the ground floor, Damien himself returned.

  She fairly flew to him. “What happened?”

  “It’s all right.” Before he could say anything more, they both turned at the sound of horses’ hooves and coach wheels on the drive. She looked at Damien. Had the soldiers returned?

  She let out a breath of relief when she saw it was the rector’s coach.

  “Perhaps he’s heard something,” Damien murmured.

  “Maybe he’ll be able to help us,” whispered Florence, already thinking ahead. If Damien were to be charged, they would need the rector’s influence.

  “Come,” Damien said when he’d removed his coat, “let us wait for him in the drawing room.”

  “Yes, you are right.”

  A few minutes after they were seated themselves, the rector was shown in by Betsy.

  He nodded to them both. It was only after he had taken a seat, his slim hands folded over his walking stick, that he spoke. “I received the most extraordinary news today. I confess I would not have countenanced such nonsense except that it came from a most reliable source.”

  Florence’s glance darted to Damien. What could he be referring to?

  “What news was that?” Damien asked gently.

  The rector’s dark brows drew together. “I was informed that the convict, Quinn, has been hiding here.”

  Florence felt both dread and relief. She had not liked keeping a secret from their friend and mentor. Was he angry? Would he help them? She glanced at Damien.

  As always, he remained calm under pressure. “May I ask how you came to be informed?”

  “The Duke of Winchester sent me a note.”

  Florence gasped then endeavored to compose her features when the rector’s eyes turned to her.

  “Shocked would not begin to describe what went through my mind when I was told.” The mantel clock ticked loudly in the still room as the rector’s stern look included them both.

  “I can understand your alarm.” Damien’s tone remained calm. “Perhaps we need to explain things fully.”

  “Indeed.” The rector leaned forward on his walking stick.

  Florence’s attention went back and forth between the two men. The rector, thankfully, did not look her way again.

  When Damien said nothing right away, Rector Doyle cleared his throat. “When the duke informed me you were sheltering a fugitive, I dismissed the notion immediately.” He paused and continued looking steadily at Damien, whose face radiated the serenity of a person whose conscience is clear. “However, what he told me is very difficult to ignore.”

  “Why would the duke know anything of this matter?” Damien asked.

  “The duke said there was something he found familiar about Kendall from the first moment he saw him. He couldn’t rest until he got to the bottom of it. He hired someone to follow your houseguest and see if he could discover anything more of his identity. The man showed someone in this household a poster of the convicted man—a man sentenced to be hanged.” Here, the rector’s eyes turned Florence’s way.

  “The same man who abducted you.” Florence pressed her lips together, afraid of saying anything to further risk either Quinn’s or her brother’s safety.

  “It was this last piece of information that pained me the most,” the rector continued softly. His eyes remained pinned on her. “I assured him I hardly thought you would harbor a dangerous fugitive in your midst.”

  “How…how was Kendall identified?” she asked, her voice sounding faint to her ears.

  “As I said, this Bow Street Runner showed a member of your household a wanted poster with the man’s picture. It was confirmed that Kendall’s appearance when he first arrived on your doorstep was that of the man in the poster.”

  “Bu-but that poster shows only a black-bearded man—he could resemble any number of people,” she faltered. “It is true that Mr. Kendall arrived to us in a bit of a dirty, disheveled state, but that doesn’t mean he is a convicted criminal.”

  “Florence,” her brother said gently. She turned her eyes to him, unable to believe he wouldn’t continue to protect Quinn’s identity. His next words confirmed her worst fears. “I believe we must be truthful to our brother in Christ, Reverend Doyle.”

  What was he saying? She turned to the rector. Would he understand? He must.

  Damien was addressing Doyle. “Kendall is indeed the man you speak of.” He held up a hand to forestall the rector’s words. “Before you jump to any conclusions, I beg you would hear me out. I
do not pretend to defend my conduct, but to explain the circumstances we found ourselves in.”

  The rector sat back in his seat. “Of course, dear boy. I have all confidence in both of you.” His glance encompassed Florence, and she began to feel a measure of ease. Perhaps he would help Quinn. “I told the duke as much.”

  Damien began to speak, in the same measured way he addressed the congregation on a Sunday. Florence was sure his words would move the rector.

  “So, you see, Reverend Doyle,” he summed up, “why I decided to give Quinn refuge here in our parish. I believe the Lord sent him to us. Moreover, I believe he is innocent of the crime he was accused of. I believe with all my heart that the Lord is doing a good work in the man, for the saving of his soul. Moreover, Mr. Quinn’s behavior while he has been under our roof has been exemplary.”

  The rector contemplated his folded hands on the walking stick. When he looked up at them, she couldn’t read whether Damien’s words had moved him or not. His expression remained as solemn as when he’d first come in. “I must confess I am disturbed, deeply disturbed, by this story you have related to me.”

  Damien gave a slight nod of his head. “I understand your disquiet.”

  “To begin with,” he continued, without seeming to hear Damien’s words, “that you should make such a weighty decision without consulting me. I am deeply hurt. I have nurtured you, mentored you in your Christian faith. To take it upon yourself to use deceit, nay, to lie to your congregation, to me, to all those who see your clerical collar.” The rector shuddered slightly and shook his head. “No, dear boy, it is no light thing you have chosen to do.”

  Damien rubbed his hand over his jaw, the only sign of agitation he gave. “All I ask is that you give the man a chance. If the authorities apprehend him, he will surely be hanged.”

  “The man was tried in the highest court in the land and was found guilty as charged.”

  “You know what a trial like that means. He had no legal counsel. His accuser, a shady character, and one witness alone, were brought forward. The case was decided in under a quarter of an hour. It was a miscarriage of justice at best, a farce at worst—”

  “It was a trial at the Old Bailey with a respected judge presiding. The accused is one of the scum that is the scourge of our fine city.” The rector stood, his argument growing more heated. “If we don’t stop their outrages by using one as an example, the city will be overrun by counterfeiters and extortionists. I could see from his uncouth behavior the moment you introduced me to him that there was a criminal element in him.”

  Florence opened her mouth to protest this last accusation but a quick look from her brother stilled her.

  Doyle shook his head grimly. “So, this Quinn once again has eluded the law.”

  Damien stood to face the older man. “Reverend Doyle, I beg you to consider a man’s life, a man whom I truly believe did not commit the crime he was accused of. And if perchance he is guilty, weigh the crime against the sentence. Does he deserve death?”

  “Damien, I am appalled and deeply disappointed at the stand you are taking in this affair. This country’s very future is at stake. Do you not understand what has happened across the Channel barely two decades ago? Do you not see how close our own nation has been to falling to the radical voices of revolution? When citizens take the law into their hands—” His knuckles were white against the head of his cane. “No, I cannot permit such a thing to happen here.”

  Florence stood and advanced toward the reverend. “We are commanded by Holy Scripture to help the prisoner.” She reached the rector and placed a hand on his arm, lowering her voice. “Please, Reverend Doyle, have mercy on this man’s life.” Dismayed by the emotion that made her voice shake, she stepped back.

  The reverend stopped her with his hand over hers. “My dear, calm yourself. Surely, you can see my position. I expected you to help me reason with your brother. I am sure you were abducted and very likely terrified by your experience. The man—the brute—ought to be hanged for this crime alone, taking a helpless young lady as a hostage.”

  “It wa…wasn’t exactly like that,” she began.

  “I know your sympathetic nature. Very likely, you’ve convinced yourself of the man’s story. You do your brother no favors by harboring and protecting a criminal. Believe me, I will do all in my power, as well as beg the duke’s influence, so that your brother will not be accused of breaking the laws of this land.”

  She drew in her breath. “Please, Reverend Doyle, my brother did nothing wrong. It was I who brought this man to our house, and if Damien is guilty of anything it is of obeying his conscience.”

  “I know, my dear, which is why as rector of this parish I will be indulgent with him as a first-time offender.” He turned his attention to Damien, his tone hardening. “That is why we must act swiftly to bring Quinn to justice. The court must see that you two have in fact been held hostage by this criminal—”

  Panic flooded her veins like a raging river. “Haven’t you heard what my brother has said? A man’s very life is at stake.”

  Doyle brought his unyielding focus back to her. “I am saddened by your behavior as well. I always considered you a steady, levelheaded lady, not given to hysterics or excesses of emotional outbursts.”

  She stepped back, her hands clenched at her sides. “Perhaps you haven’t known me.”

  “I trust that I have. I have known you since you were a young girl. The quiet, well-behaved, God-fearing woman whose hand I asked in marriage is the one I trust is the real Florence Hathaway.”

  In that instant, Florence felt as if her heart, which had been encased for so long, was finally breaking free. “The real Florence Hathaway is a woman who hates injustice and who has given her life to fight it wherever she finds it.”

  “Fighting injustice is a noble undertaking, but to break the laws of the land is quite another thing altogether. I cannot condone such behavior in the future Mrs. Doyle. I seek a wife who is ‘discreet, chaste, a keeper at home, good,’ and above all, ‘obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed,’ as St. Paul exhorts.”

  “She also ‘stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.’” Florence found herself quoting back to him from the Book of Proverbs.

  “The devil will quote Scripture to his own use,” he said, his voice growing stern.

  She fell back. How could she have contemplated giving herself—her autonomy—to this man? Suddenly, she could see what her life would have been like. She would have had no voice except what the reverend said. She would have been merely his mouthpiece for what he allowed her to speak.

  “Perhaps you need to take back your proposal of marriage,” she said in a composed tone.

  “Florence!” Damien’s eyes were wide with a touch of warning.

  “My dear Florence, you are overwrought,” the rector’s voice had taken on a soothing tone once again. “My offer of marriage still stands as long as I can have your assurance that you will repent of this ungodly step you’ve taken and follow to the utmost the letter of the law.”

  “I will not betray a man who has sought mercy of my brother and me.” Her voice now sounded cold and hard even to her own ears. Why was she risking all for a man she had up to now fought against so? She wasn’t sure yet, but she felt a certainty of conviction that didn’t allow her to back down.

  “You don’t know what you are saying.” The rector held her gaze.

  She didn’t falter under it. “I only know it is right.”

  “Then, my dear, you leave me no choice but to withdraw my offer of marriage.” He took a step back and bowed his head as if with great sorrow.

  “Florence.” Damien came to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this for me. I can very well champion Mr. Quinn’s cause. Don’t throw away your future happiness.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not.” She gave him a tentati
ve smile, not sure of anything right now except her desire to protect Quinn, whatever it cost her.

  Damien turned to the rector. “Reverend Doyle, all we ask is that Jonah Quinn be given a chance to escape.”

  The rector sighed and shook his head, as if deeply disappointed. “I promised the duke I would report my findings to him, and he awaits me now. I cannot but be truthful to him, however much it grieves my heart to implicate my two dearest disciples.” He bowed his head and turned away from them.

  When he’d gone, Florence’s legs threatened to collapse beneath her. She looked at Damien. “What will happen now?”

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “I don’t know. I…must admit…” His blue eyes held pain. “I was…disappointed in the rector’s response to our plea.”

  Florence reached for his hand. “Will you be in much trouble? It’s my fault for bringing you into this.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Oh, Flo, how could you not offer Quinn a place when he needed it? You were only following the dictates of your heart.” He gave her hand a squeeze before letting it go. “Don’t worry about me. They questioned me thoroughly down at Newgate, and I was truthful. They let me go, I think mainly because I’m a clergyman. It gives me some sort of immunity, although they’ve made it plain they might call me in again for further questioning.

  “It is Quinn who should concern us now. We can do nothing more than pray for his safety, but that is not a little thing.”

  She nodded. Yes, she would pray for the man who’d grown to mean more than her reputation…more than life itself in the short time she’d known him.

  She would give all of herself to prayer now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jonah shifted on the damp riverbed, easing the kinks in his legs. He’d been squatting there some time, his fishing line floating in the small stream. The water, stained red from the nearby tanneries, hardly yielded any fish, but he dared not venture far from his hiding place, and then only after dark.

  He had little choice. Buying provisions was out of the question. Wanted posters for him were up everywhere, this time offering a handsome reward of twenty guineas for his capture. The irony of the sum wasn’t lost on him. The prize money still rested in its leather pouch at the bottom of his satchel.